The Tower Read Free

you’d been to Iceland. Who do you know there?’
    She was from Iceland, worked for the United Nations or some related NGO—she’d told him the first time they’d met but he hadn’t taken much notice. He recalled her saying her organisation helped women who’d been trafficked for sex, and guessed she must be a player to get sent to Sydney, a far more pleasant posting than most places with trafficking problems. Randall liked players.
    â€˜I was flying from New York to Frankfurt one time and we had to land, some engine thing,’ he said, licking her ear. ‘Only an hour, we didn’t even get off the plane.’
    â€˜So you’re cheating,’ she said.
    â€˜That’s right.’
    She put her arms around him and pushed him down on the bed, each of them a little excited now.
    After a bit, she said, ‘Is the camera on?’
    â€˜I thought you didn’t like it.’
    â€˜I want it now. But don’t get up.’
    â€˜It’s okay,’ he said, reaching out while she sat up, running her fingernails down his chest. He felt around on the bedside table, careful not to knock the open wrapper of coke, eventually locating what he was looking for. It had been difficult to find a camera with a remote control, and he’d wondered what other people used it for.
    â€˜Let’s make a movie,’ she said, coming down at him with her tongue out, her backside wiggling at the camera.
    This, he thought, is going to be good.
    But then the phone rang.

Three
    M cIver had been gone a while and Troy was starting to feel anxious. He was pretty sure the sarge was pissed. You were supposed to look out for fellow team members, but with McIver it was hard because he did like a drink. He thought about the last time they’d worked together, a domestic killing at Forbes. They’d been away for almost a month, which was not unusual. McIver had spent every evening with colleagues or acquaintances he made in town. Sometimes he would ask the motel where they were staying to provide a room so they could watch a DVD. He had a big collection, with lots of Westerns. Troy didn’t like Westerns usually, but Mac’s were pretty good. When it wasn’t a film night, McIver would be at a pub or club, often with his guitar. He had a fine voice, and could play just about anything, though he had a particular liking for old American songs, blues and country. But always there was a bottle nearby.
    Unsure what to do next, Troy headed over to the entrance to the construction site. When a security guard asked him his name, he produced his ID and went inside. In theory he should wait for instructions from McIver, who was his boss. But Mac didn’t work like that. He decided to talk to the head of security.
    The space—what would be the atrium of the building—was enormous, perhaps five storeys high, and well lit. Three portable offices were stacked at the far end. He had a word to one of the guards and was directed to an office. As he walked towards it, breathing the cold smell of concrete, someone called out to him. He turned and saw a short woman standing next to a man, both of them in uniform. The woman was about fifty with blonde hair. She would have been attractive once, he thought.
    â€˜Inspector Gina Harmer,’ she said, extending her hand.
    She had one of those looks that told you she was sizing you up, wanted you to know. As they shook hands her phone rang. She began a conversation about manpower and the guy next to her made notes on a clipboard he was holding. After a while, Troy continued on his way.
    As he climbed the metal stairs he could hear raised voices inside. He opened a door with a sign saying SECURITY , and found two men standing by some sort of control panel. One, who looked Lebanese, was in a security guard’s uniform. He appeared fit and alert, unlike some people in his line of work. The other was a tall guy in a suit, his head shaved, one of